Mary Pickford in particular has been stimulated to be over-athletic, and in all her career she has been given just one chance to be her more delicate self, and that was in the almost forgotten film:--A Romance of the Redwoods.

This is one of the serious commercial attempts that should be revived and studied, in spite of its crudities of plot, by our Art Museums.

There is something of the grandeur of the redwoods in it, in contrast to the sustained Botticelli grace of "Our Mary." I am the one poet who has a right to claim for his muses Blanche Sweet, Mary Pickford, and Mae Marsh.

I am the one poet who wrote them songs when they were Biograph heroines, before their names were put on the screen, or the name of their director.

Woman's clubs are always asking me for bits of delicious gossip about myself to fill up literary essays.